VOT. 'Tis his footing, certain. ANS. Are you chamber'd? I'll fetch you from aloft. [_Exit_ ANSELMUS. VOT. He takes my work, And toils to bring me ease: this use I'll make of him; His care shall watch to keep all strange thieves out, Whilst I familiarly go in and rob him, Like one that knows the house. But how has rashness and my jealousy us'd me! Out of my vengeance to mine enemy, Confess'd her yielding: I have lock'd myself From mine own liberty with that key; revenge Does no man good, but to his greater harm; Suspect and malice, like a mingled cup, Made me soon drunk; I knew not what I spoke; And that may get me pardon. [_Exit._ _Enter_ ANSELMUS, _a dagger in his hand, with_ LEONELLA. LEO. Why, my lord! ANS. Confess, thou mystical panderess! Run, Votarius, To the back gate, the guilty slave leap'd out, And 'scap'd me so; this strumpet lock'd him up In her own chamber. [_Exit_ VOTARIUS. LEO. Hold, my lord--I might. He is my husband, sir! ANS. O soul of cunning! Came that arch subtlety from thy lady's counsel Or thine own sudden craft? Confess to me, How oft thou hast been a bawd to their close actions, Or all thy light goes out? LEO. My lord, believe me-- In truth, I love a man too well myself To bring him to my mistress. ANS. Leave thy sporting! Or my next offer makes thy heart weep blood. LEO. O, spare that strength, my lord, and I'll reveal A secret that concerns you; for this does not. ANS. Back, back, my fury, then! It shall not touch thy breast; speak freely, what is't? LEO. Votarius and my lady are false gamesters; They use foul play, my lord. ANS. Thou liest. LEO. Reward me then for altogether; if it prove not so, I'll never bestow time to ask your pity. ANS. Votarius and thy lady? 'twill ask days Ere it be settled in belief. So, rise! Go, get thee to thy chamber! [_Exit._ LEO. A pox on you! You hind'red me of better business: thank you. He's fray'd a secret from me; would he were whipp'd! Faith, from a woman a thing's quickly slipp'd. [_Exit._ SCENE II. _Enter the_ TYRANT _with_ SOPHONIRUS, MEMPHONIUS, _and other nobles. A flourish_. TYR. My joys have all false parts, there's nothing true to me, That's either kind or pleasant. I'm hardly dealt withal; I must not miss her, I want her sight too long. Where's this old fellow? SOPH. Here's one, my lord, of threescore and seventeen. TYR. Pish! That old limber ass puts in his head still. Helvetius! where is he? MEM. Not yet return'd, my lord. _Enter_ HELVETIUS.